“Perfectly harmless. You certainly can’t see anything objectionable in that.” “No; I can’t,” admitted Jeremy. “Run a lot of it, then. It costs nothing, and it will help square you for the school bill break.” Which Jeremy found good advice and resolved to follow. He said as much and was approved as one coming to his senses after regrettable errancy. “How much pull do you think the Deutscher Club crowd have with the Drovers’ Bank?” asked Jeremy. “Not so much. If you do have difficulty there, let me know. I could probably fix you up in some of the out-of-town banks.” The Drovers’ Bank made no difficulty. Mr. Warrington was most amenable when Jeremy returned. This helped to reassure the borrower that no financial plot threatened his newspaper. He would have felt less happy had he known that the interval between his visits had been utilized by Mr. Warrington to pay a call of consultation upon a certain florid and self-important gentleman, no lover of The Guardian or its editor since he had suffered indignities of print as “President Puff” from Jeremy’s satiric and not always well-advised pen. “Let him have it,” directed the public utilitarian. “Three months’ note.” Montrose Clark smiled puffily upon Judge Selden Dana later at the club. “I thought he would come around to us,” he stated. “What will you do now?” asked the lawyer. “Wait,” replied the magnate. Which might have been regarded either as direction, threat, or declaration of intent, and partook of the nature of all three. CHAPTER IX BUDDY HIGMAN, prosperous in a new blue-and-yellow mackinaw (Christmas), a pair of fur mittens (New Year’s), and high snow-boots (accumulated savings), entered the Fenchester Post-Office with the mien of one having important business with the Government. Four dollars a week was now Buddy’s princely stipend from The Guardian, for working before and after school hours at a special job of clipping and sorting advertisements from the press of the State, for purposes of comparison. Occasionally Buddy brought in an item of news, with all the pride of a puppy bringing in a mouse, and beat it out with two fingers on a borrowed typewriter. Such of these contributions as got into print were paid for extra. Thereby Buddy was laboriously building up a bank account. It was young Mr. Higman’s intention to be, one day, Governor of the State. But in his wilder and more untrammeled flights, he hoped to be an editor like Mr. Robson. Buddy was an enthusiastic, even a hiero-phantic worker at his job. He was worth all that The Guardian paid him. Even had he not been, the Boss would have kept him on. For he was, all unknowing, a link; decidedly a tenuous link, but the only permanent and reliable one, between Jeremy and a foregone past. At the stamp window Mr. Burton Higman, dealing with the United States Government, produced a silver dollar and gave his order in a firm and manly voice. “Hullo, Buddy,” greeted the clerk. “Still got that girl in Yurrup, I see.”